


La Vie En Rose

by Jugdish



Category: The Sopranos
Genre: Catholic Guilt, F/F, alternate universe Canon Divergence, compulsory heterosexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 16:47:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6864556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jugdish/pseuds/Jugdish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically season four of The Sopranos, but Rosalie and Carmela are gay and in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Vie En Rose

**Author's Note:**

> I spent way too long on this for not the results I wanted, but I want to get this out there. It's bad, and I'm (kind of) sorry. Anyways, enjoy this self-indulgent piece.

Rosalie crossed her legs and shifted her weight in the chair, the corduroy fabric of her pants causing an unsavory sound. Here she was in the Sopranos’ home, at a dinner celebrating her birthday and  _ Ralph _ was dominating the conversation. She would protest, express bitterness or anger, but her motivation to speak was severely lacking. She felt like she was always a step or two behind in the conversation, her diminished processing time taking a toll on her conversational capabilities. 

The spread, however, was still splendid. Words whizzed past her at alarming speeds, but the aromas lulled her into a sleepier state, already induced by the fucking medication the doctors had her on. Nevertheless, she assumed the role of faithful friend and partner -- she struggled to gather the focus to follow a conversation, but hid her discomfort behind a placid expression.

She was there in that sense. In that she projected the version of herself people wanted to see, but she let her mind wander, sizing up the people around her, perhaps to ground herself.

Mr. and Mrs. DeAngelis were Carmela’s parents, only recent attendees of these Sunday night dinners, having reasserted their place after Livia’s death. Their two tired bodies had been weathered by time. Wrinkles were etched in their skin, chronicling their years on earth. Hugh acted as if his age did not create barriers in relating to the younger crowd. He lagged behind in the conversation, his remarks reeking of desperation. At his age, he still sought the attention and approval of Tony Soprano and people like him. Mary was almost worse. She resented Tony for indulging her husband and she resented her daughter for marrying him. Yet she remained the picture of poise, her façade unwavering.

Meadow was Carmela’s daughter. Her olive skin and lustrous raven hair resembled her father’s. She was beautiful. Looking at Meadow stirred a deep sense of loss in her. The acute pain growing in her chest mirrored the dejected nature of her thoughts. To her, Meadow was what could have been. The last serious love interest of her late son Jackie, for Rosalie, she served as a reminder of her failure as a mother. Jackie could have been good like Meadow 

if she just could have given him more patience, offered him a good role model, something. His death left a gaping hole in her heart. Cliché? Maybe. But it probably got to be so fucking overused because it rang true.

AJ, too, dredged up a sense of loss. But it was different, looking at him. He made her feel a twisted fucking sense of resentment. Of all the boys in the world, it had to be her son, her Jackie? AJ sat there, absorbing the grandiose tales of his father’s business, corrupted by the same evil as her son and yet there he was before her, him and his goofy friend. Maybe it isn’t healthy, but she's angry and incomplete and she's got to direct those thoughts somewhere.

Tony was the boss of the family. The business. The mob. The mafia. Whatever the word of choice was these days. He was yet another reminder of a life she could have had -- Tony’s hulking presence reminded her that he got to keep the job that Jack should have held onto. She heard he was selfish and unfair and not at all the diplomat that Jack was. She knew from Carmela that Tony had affairs and that he pushed her around. Every time she saw him she had to muster up the strength to direct some phony fucking courtesy his way.

Ralph Cifaretto, her beau du jour. He guilted her into his fucking kinky sex and then skipped out every time she needed more than just a physical connection. Even when she tried to get closer with him, he was never  _ there.  _ Maybe she stayed with him for the money. That extra income. But some small part of her hoped that he could be better.

Janice was Tony's sister, and perhaps the sneakiest motherfucker she’s ever encountered. She didn't trust Janice as far as she could throw her, but she lived for her story’s about sticking it to a man or even  _ the _ man. That free and liberated youth, that's what she envied.

And then there was Carmela. Carmela became the most consistent thing in her life after the deaths of Jackie and Jackie, Jr. Carmela was there for her when Ralph wasn't, present and receptive, offering advice or even just plain validation when she needed it. Carmela was to whom she turned when she needed to escape the shit that life just kept on throwing at her. Rosalie thought that Carmela was one of those women who people build their life around. A pillar of stability and tradition. That’s why everyone, herself included, gravitated towards her.

 

* * *

 

A dark-haired woman postured herself to speak at the lectern. She called herself Professor Murphy. Adorned in a blazer with a bulky, silver brooch on her chest, and a matching skirt, she stood tall and confident as she addressed the audience of Italian-American women before her.

“Looking out at this audience of proud, strong, beautiful women, how far we have come in this American journey. Look how we’ve both preserved the tradition of our ancestors and managed to become new Italian-American women. Such flair we have added to our image. And yet America still sees us as pizza makers and Mama Leone’s. Well it is your job, ladies, to spread the word. Our grandmothers may have been dressed in black, but we’re in Moschino and Armani. For those who say Italian-Americans eat smelly cheese and sip cold wine, tell them we’re from the land of aromatic Asiago and supple Barolo. If they say spaghetti and meatballs, you tell them orecchiette with broccoli rabe. If they say John Gotti, you tell them Rudolph Giuliani.”

“A Princeton study showed that 74% of Americans associated Italian-Americans with organized crime,” she continued.

Carmela felt dozens of pairs of eyes stealing glances at her as the woman spoke. She struggled to look straight forward, depriving them the satisfaction of her acknowledgement. She allowed herself to falter and broke her focus from the speaker and saw Charmaine Bucco boring her eyes into her. She quickly realigned herself. She was embarrassed by the fact that her family had become a scapegoat for the status of Italian-Americans in her own company. She became the face of that shame.

“Why would they do this? Because of the way the media depicts us,” Murphy went on.

Rosalie caught another woman glaring at her and Carmela, and discreetly flipped her off, satisfied when the woman squirmed and turned around in her seat.

“Again, it is our job to make sure people know the other side of Italian-American culture.”

Carmela noticed in her periphery that Charmaine hadn’t taken her eyes off of her throughout Murphy’s bit about organized crime, but she pretended not to notice. Charmaine acted like it was Carmela’s fault that Artie changed -- flirting with other women, sticking his nose in Tony’s affairs. But whose fault was that, really? Artie envied the power Tony had at his fingertips, that Tony’s charisma and influence got him anything he wanted. Artie’s disobedience to his wife was on his own accord.

“The educated, wage-earning, law-abiding side. Because isn’t that who we truly are?”

Gab and Karen exchanged glances, like Carmela, they knew that the speech made her out to be the villain in the eyes of the women at the tables surrounding them. Carmela would take the brunt of the humiliation, not Tony. They knew that these women resented Carmela’s complicity in her husband’s affairs, but eyed the designer clothing, the house, the handbags that she paraded. Meanwhile their husbands secretly revered Tony and the violence and misogyny he perpetuated. Whether they realized it or not, she is who they wanted to be.

Rosalie glanced at Carmela, checking to see if her calm exterior had at all wavered.

“Thank you,” Professor Murphy finished and the luncheon flooded with applause.

Pairs of eyes flitted in Carmela’s direction as the luncheon wrapped up where she sat, unblinkingly, processing the spotlight Murphy inadvertently shined on her in the presence of her peers. She calculated the ramifications of this embarrassment -- Who would dodge her at the market? Who would avert her eyes after spotting Carmela at one of AJ’s school functions? She was, socially speaking, screwed for at least a month, she thought.

 

* * *

 

“Well, I’ll say it, that was totally uncalled for,” Rosalie said, disrupting the uncomfortable silence that settled among the four of them in the now empty hall.

“Father Intintola’s forgetting who his friends are,” Karen stated plainly.

“It was outrageous, Carm, I’m shocked,” Gab said, perhaps pandering to her, perhaps not.

“What are you gonna do? Everyone’s entitled to their opinion,” Carmela said, trying to hide the mortification she felt -- seventy plus women pinning the discrimination and hostility they experienced for being Italian on  _ her _ . Not even her husband,  _ her _ . The thought of being perceived as a villain by all those women, by Charmaine Bucco, for Christ’s sake, made her stomach churn.

“Really, though, how dare he? After all you’ve done for this parish,” Gab lamented.

“What are you gonna do?” Carmela asked, resigned.

“Well, I’m gonna cut him a new one,” Gab said, marching out of the room.

Carmela sighed, thinking that Gab would only end up bringing more attention to her. Not to mention her weariness of drawing Father Intintola into the conflict. Rosalie glanced over again, watching Carmela’s eyes, hopeful that Carmela wasn't internalizing anything.

 

* * *

 

“Orecchiette and broccoli rabe, you know, the truth is that is northern,” Karen said as she exited the church with Carmela and Rosalie.

“Oh, Armani, too, and Michelangelo,” Carmela added.

Gab caught up with the three of them. “What a coward that man is. He’s always been a lily liver.”

“No, he’s sweet,” Rosalie said, recalling the solace she found in him after Jack’s death.

“What’d he say?” Karen asked.

“Oh, he’s all apologetic now. I let him have it,” Gab said, her posture and intonation revealing her self-satisfaction.

“Well, whatever, you did what you could,” Carmela said, defeated.

“I couldn’t leave here without saying something,” Gab continued.

“You know, I gotta go, I’m getting my new crown today,” Karen said before retreating to her car.

Rosalie walked ahead of Carmela and opened her door for her before crossing over to the other side and sitting in the driver’s seat.

They sat in silence as Rosalie drove Carmela back to her house.

 

* * *

 

Carmela was visibly trembling as she hung up the corded phone. She lingered there for a moment with her fingers curled around the receiver, trying to process what Gab had told her -- Karen Baccalieri was dead. She turned towards Rosalie, her eyes revealing the shock and devastation wrought by the phone call.

“What happened?” Rosalie asked. Despite Carmela’s frequent attempts to conceal her feelings beneath her cheerful hospitality, Rosalie could always sense when something was awry. Throughout their years of friendship, Rosalie became adept at reading the slightest changes in Carmela’s mood -- detecting her voice’s slightest changes in pitch, the minute changes in her brow, tracking the movement of her eyes. Carmela was someone she couldn’t help but pay attention to.

“Karen had an accident on Pompton Avenue. She’s dead.”

“Oh, Carm,” Rosalie said. Tears welled up in her eyes. She felt like every time she turned a corner that she was confronted with casualties. The symptoms of grief with which she became familiar over the last few years bubbled to the surface. Her heart pounded, her throat closed up, and her chest tightened as if a weight had collapsed on it. The all too familiar feeling of depression and doom loomed over her.

Carmela instinctively drew Rosalie into her arms, her mind-racing as Rosalie’s body was racked with sobs in her arms.

Karen and Bobby Baccalieri were hardly at the forefront of Carmela’s thoughts now. She instead thought of Rosalie and the hefty burden of loss that stacked up on her shoulders.

She squeezed Rosalie tighter in her arms as if to share with her what little strength and resolve was left in her own body.

Here was Rosalie in her arms -- her best friend, her dearest companion, the one other woman who understood her plight because she herself had lived through it. Rosalie, whose son would forever be linked to her own daughter. Rosalie who would fight tooth and nail for each and every one of her friends.

Tony and the boys talked about honor and loyalty, their omertà, but what the fuck would they know about that? When you got past the bullshit façade they orchestrated for their families and friends, they each looked out for themselves first -- just like Tony. Carmela was certain that if those pricks had half the dedication that Rosalie and the other wives had for each other, organized crime would be just that -- organized. Passing the torch from a horde of crazed egomaniacs to their sensitive counterparts might restore some sanctity to Jersey.

Even now, holding Rosalie’s petite frame in her arms, Carmela was running through what dishes she might prepare for Bobby and his family, who should bring meals on which day, who should pick up Bobby’s kids from school and practice. She was positive that Rosalie and Gabrielle would silently do the same if they hadn’t already. And Tony? He probably barely gave it a second thought before running off to screw some whore or shake down some poor fuck for cash in the name of providing for his family. It made her sick just thinking about it. His double life. She recited the words she repeated to herself every night he didn’t come home to her: “out of sight, out of mind.”

Carmela decided that she and Rosalie could run the mob better than their husbands and with less blood on their hands.

Rosalie signaled for Carmela to release her. Rosalie wiped the sticky tears and the smudged makeup from her face, took a deep breath, and straightened her back in front of Carmela.

“I’m good. I’m good now,” Rosalie insisted. She let out a deep sigh. “Is it me, Carm?”

“Is it you what?” Carmela asked, furrowing her brow.

“These deaths keep following me around, Carmela. It’s starting to feel like I’ve got a fucking body count.”

“Ro, it’s not you. It’s never you.” Carmela drew Rosalie into her arms again and pulled her head to her chest. Carmela planted a kiss on the crown of Rosalie’s head and stroked her hair. “You can’t think like that, Ro. You just can’t.”

Rosalie sighed and stepped back. “You know where I left my keys?”

“Come on, you set them down on the dining room table,” Carmela says as she led Rosalie to the dining room, her arm around Rosalie’s shoulder.

“See,” she said. She extended her arm towards Rosalie and jingled the keys, feigning cheer, “Right where you left them.”

Carmela placed the keys in Rosalie’s palm, resting her own hands on top of Rosalie’s. “Are you sure you want to drive, Ro? I can take you home and you can pick your car up later.”

“Don’t worry about me, Carm. Take care of yourself.”

Carmela inhaled a deep breath and slowly exhaled as she watched Rosalie roll out of her driveway.

 

* * *

 

The sound of Bobby Baccalieri’s heavy tears set a somber tone to Karen’s funeral.

Carmela was filled with dread as his cries flooded the room. She pitied Bobby and his children, she did. But she sat there contemplating her husband’s mortality, too. How would she get on without Tony? And what of Anthony and Meadow? With the image of Bobby kneeling before Karen’s grave burned in her head, she was uncertain if she would fare much better.

Her train of thought was interrupted by Gab joining Adriana, Rosalie, and her towards the back of the room.

“How he loved her,” Gab whispered. Gab, Rosalie, and Carmela turned to see their romantic counterparts discussing what seemed to be the innocuous details surrounding the origin of Sil’s ring. At the back of their heads, the thought that not one of them would be overwhelmed with the same grief as Bobby in the event of their deaths nagged them. Carmela cynically envisioned Tony and herself in the place of Bobby and Karen. He would grieve for an appropriate period of time before returning to his commonplace remark: “What are you going to do?”

“You know what I heard one time?” Gab confided, “Sil was on the phone, he was talking with somebody about how Bobby was the only one of them who doesn’t have a goomara. They were laughing at him.”

“Who was he talking to on the phone?” Carmela asked, attempting to scrounge together details of Tony’s latest case of infidelity.

“I don’t know,” Gab said. “I’ll go first this time, I’ll bring my eggplant parm over to Bobby’s,” Gab offered.

“Actually, tomorrow is better for me,” Carmela replied.

Ginny Sack sat down behind Gab. “Ginny, hi. We were just talking about who’s gonna do what when,” Carmela said.

“I played canasta with her just last week,” Ginny said woefully.

 

* * *

 

Rosalie sat at the head of her bed, shrouded in a cloud of cigarette smoke. Pieces of her chestnut brown hair that had haphazardly fallen out of her ponytail framed her face. She hugged her knees to her chest. She was practically shaking as she attempted to communicate her grief with Ralph.

“There’s no release,” she began, “I’m surrounded by death, my husband, my son, my friend.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Ro,” Ralph said from the foot of the bed, dressing himself.

“There’s pieces torn out of me. Chunks of me that are dead. I mean look at me, my youth, my looks, they’re gone.”

“No. That’s from not taking care of yourself. Dwelling on all this stuff.”

“It’s not stuff. Do you have any idea what it feels like? Do you? It’s not stuff, it’s death, it’s pain!” The fucking nerve on Ralph almost shocked her, his blatant lack of empathy, but it was something had grown accustomed to as she was drawn into the fringe of New Jersey’s mafia. She wondered if he didn’t have the ability to empathize with her or if he just didn’t have the fucking will.

“I’m having a lot of trouble dealing with this. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what?”

“I don’t think I can do this. I don’t think I can help you. You need a lot right now and I don’t think there’s anything I can do.”

“You can be there for me, you could comfort me,” she said, leaning forward towards him as if it would bridge their differences. She tried desperately to reach out to some small part of him that might possibly harbor compassion.

“What about me? What do I get out of it?”

“There it is. Right there. What do you get. How about your every need taken care of? Sexually, everything. All your shit, it’s all about you, isn’t it?”

“It’s not all about me, but I mean… Let’s be realistic.”

“Let’s be realistic? What do you wanna leave me?”

“Yeah.”

“Then get the get the fuck out,” she states as she launches her body back to the head of the bed. Fuck him.

“It doesn’t have to be like this.”

“How should it be, huh? How the fuck should it be?!”

As Ralph ambled out of her room like the selfish dope that he was, Rosalie covered her face with her hands and the tears started to surface again. Sometimes she felt like everybody she once loved was gone. They were either dead or emotionally unavailable and she was left wading in this shit by herself.

These dark thoughts show up like clockwork, a part of her routine. Small shit set her off. Seeing Jackie Jr.’s favorite cereal at the grocery store or walking past a man who smelled of Jack’s old cologne. She felt like a goddamn basket case. Alcohol helped, at least.

Jesus, it didn’t help when her man walked out on her for the same reasons she was starting to hate herself. The moodiness, the neediness, the tears. She hated it, too.

Fuck that. So what if she was fucked up. That selfish prick was worse than she was. Sticking around with her just because she dealt with his kinky sex bullshit. Fuck him. She deserved better.

Rosalie thought about the few places in her life where she found stability in her life and realized that it was never with a man. Not really. Jackie was unfaithful to her and even she had a fling of her own, let alone the hostility that emerged between Ralph and her. She pictured Carm and Gab and the other wives. The constants in her life that gave her some perspective on all this shit. Those women were there for her in the aftermath of Jack and Jackie Jr. She confided in them in ways she never did with Ralph or Jack. They looked out for her and she took care of them just the same. Carmela especially. Carmela with her blonde hair and the fine home cooking and the ass she always wanted but that God didn’t grace her with. Carmela with the sound advice and the matching enchanting smile. Carmela.

 

* * *

 

Carmela decided to stop by Rosalie’s home that afternoon because of Rosalie’s concerning behavior from the other day. Her reaction to Karen’s death wasn’t necessarily outside the norm, but with all the hardship Rosalie faced in the past year, she worried that it all might amount to something more. Her and Rosalie were closer than the other wives -- they were practically each other’s total system of support. What she said to Rosalie was in confidence, and she couldn’t always say the same for the rest of them.

Carmela rang the doorbell at Rosalie Aprile’s house with a baked ziti dish tucked under the crook of her arm. The rain was coming down hard outside and she began to shiver -- Rosalie’s front porch didn’t offer much shelter from the downpour.

Carmela waited a minute before rapping on the door after Rosalie didn't come on the second ring. Her hair started getting all mussed so she tried the handle, found it unlocked, and let herself in.

“Ro, it’s Carmela! Your door wasn’t locked so I let myself in! Where are you? I’ve got ziti,” she shouted.

She heard music coming from the second floor so she tentatively climbed the stairs to find the door to Rosalie’s room open. Rosalie was at the head of the bed, hunched over, her knees drawn into her chest. She held a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She looked disheveled, tired, like she had been crying.

“Oh, Rosalie, what happened? It’s four o’clock in the afternoon! What are you doing in bed?” she asked frantically as she approached Rosalie’s side.

“It’s Ralph,” Rosalie said, “he left me.”

Carmela softened as she put her dish down on the nightstand and crawled next to Rosalie on the other side of the bed.

“Oh, Ro, I’m so sorry.” she said gently, leaning her head onto Rosalie’s shoulder. “Why did he go?”

“Is it okay if we don’t talk about it?” she asked. Carmela nodded silently in response.

“Can you get a fork from downstairs? Get one for yourself, too, and we can share some of that ziti.”

“Whatever you want, Ro. I’ll be right back.”

Carmela came back with two forks in a matter of minutes.

“What’s this music you’re playing, Ro? It’s French, no?” Carmela said, finishing a bite of ziti.

“It’s an Édith Piaf CD,” she replied, carefully pronouncing her name the authentic French way ( _ eyd-it pee-yaff _ ), “She’s part Italian, plus my mother always had a bit of a thing for French stuff. My name’s French, you know.”

“Oh, yeah? What does it mean? Those three years of high school French haven’t stuck as well as I brag.”

“Rose.”

The two women sit in silence, listening to the crackling audio of Édith Piaf singing of love and sorrow and laughter.

“Rosalie, I’m worried about these mood-altering drugs your doctor has you on. Part of life is experiencing the highs and the lows, but this medicine seems to just leave you depressed. And it can’t be good taking it with alcohol like you do.”

“Ralph’s the one who wanted me to be on this crap in the first place,” she snapped. “You’re right, though, I should flush these damn pills. I swear, sometimes they leave me feeling like a fucking zombie.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about Ralph?”

Rosalie sighed. “The truth is, he left me because I’m sad, Carmela. I’m sad all the time. He said that I need a lot right now and that there’s nothing he can do to help me,” she swallowed and continued, “I finally found a guy after Jack and I drove him away.”

“That man does not deserve you, Rosalie. If he left you when you needed him then I say good riddance. You deserve someone who will go to the ends of the earth to make you happy and for whom you would do the same. Ralph is not that guy.”

Rosalie moved the ziti dish from her lap and set her fork in the container. She shifted her body to face Carmela. “That’s the thing, Carm,” her voice softening, “I already know someone who would do that for me.” Her eyes locked with Carmela, searching for some hint of recognition. She brushed the back of her hand against Carmela’s cheek.

“Really? Who?”

Carmela’s heart raced as Rosalie leaned in to kiss her and she felt Rosalie’s soft lips and Rosalie’s tongue meeting her own. She let her guard down for just a moment, before she pulled herself away.

“Rosalie,” she sighed and paused for a beat, looking away from her, “You must be exhausted. You’ve had a long day and, uh, you need your rest.”

Carmela ignored Rosalie staring back at her blankly. “What, um, what song is this? I know you said this is an Édith Piaf CD, but which song?” Carmela asked.

“Simple Comme Bonjour,” Rosalie said absent-mindedly.

“I should go. Tony and I are going out to dinner tonight,” she said, leaving Rosalie alone with her thoughts.

 

* * *

 

Carmela’s mind raced as she drives home. She was so distracted that she almost rear-ended someone. Twice.

Rosalie Aprile kissed her. And sure Rosalie was vulnerable with Ralph leaving her, let alone all the deaths, and she had been drinking, but still.  _ Rosalie Aprile _ kissed  _ her _ .

She couldn’t decide whether she should be flattered or disgusted. Maybe she should ask that Dr. Melfi for a psychiatrist’s number -- maybe this whole gay thing is a part of this depression Rosalie’s experiencing. Doctors used to say that homosexuality was a mental illness, right? Or maybe she should talk to Father Phil, have him intervene. Or maybe she should just let Rosalie work it out on her own.

Carmela thought about the Catholic church’s stance on homosexuality. Homosexuality -- man lying with man and woman lying with woman is a sin. Marriage is defined as the union of a man and a woman. But she couldn’t imagine Rosalie Aprile going to  _ hell _ .

Carmela decided to wait it out. Rosalie could still apologize or explain or go to confession. She should let her have time to figure it out on her own. Carmela had to remind herself that she was still the same Rosalie Aprile that she was yesterday.

Carmela thought about that song Rosalie was playing again. She vaguely registered the meaning of the words -- she knew a few words that stuck with her since high school French class. The sound of Edith Piaf’s voice echoed in her mind as she drove home in the rain.

> _ La blonde et la brune _
> 
> _ S'entendaient depuis toujours. _
> 
> _ L'amour en prit une. _
> 
> _ Tout ça est simple comme bonjour... _
> 
> _ Car un beau jour, il est venu un gars _
> 
> _ Dont les grands yeux étaient pleins de tendresse _
> 
> _ Mais elle était bien plus belle que moi _
> 
> _ Et c'est la blonde qui fut sa maîtresse. _
> 
> _ C'est une histoire si banale. _
> 
> _ Elle n'est guère originale. _
> 
> _ A travers un voile de pleurs dans les yeux, _
> 
> _ Je les ai vus partir tous les deux. _
> 
>  

* * *

 

“Oh, Tony. This is beautiful,” she said, running her hands over the ridges of the expensive black fabric. “What size is this?”

“I don’t know, uh… small,” he said, watching her handle the dress. “Try it on.”

Carmela got up from the bed and let her nightgown drop to her feet, conscious of Tony watching her. She stepped into the tight black dress and padded over to the mirror. She adjusted fabric where it clung too tightly to her skin. It fit like a glove, accentuating every curve she liked and somehow hiding the imperfections she didn’t.

Tony approached her from behind and placed his hands on her shoulders, his touch hot against her skin. “See? I knew you could pull it off.”

He brushed her hair from her shoulders. “You look like a model.”

“Listen to him now,” she said.

The intimacy of the scene changed as Edith Piaf’s voice flooded her head.

_ Chacun disait qu'elle était belle. _

_ Ces mots, comme une ritournelle, _

_ Dansaient dans ma tête _

_ Et y dansent depuis, _

_ Sans prévenir, les jours et les nuits. _

Her eyes fluttered shut and suddenly, she imagined Rosalie’s hands resting on her shoulders in Tony’s stead.

It was Rosalie who slowly dragged the dress’s thin black strap from her shoulder. Rosalie who pressed her hands against her chest. Rosalie who caressed her cheeks and brushed her hands against her jaw. Rosalie’s lips that left a trail of kisses from her shoulder to her neck. Rosalie’s hands that hugged her breasts and rubbed her shoulders.

But when she turned around to face Tony, the illusion evaporated. She passionately kissed Tony, only to be disturbed that it was Rosalie’s touch that she hungered for.

As Tony took her to bed she thought of Rosalie. She imagined Rosalie’s head buried between her legs instead of Tony’s burly frame.

Perhaps she was wrong to write Tony out of the scene, but as she was lying there bucking beneath him, the morality of her fantasy was the furthest thing from her mind.

 

* * *

 

Carmela knocked on the frame of the door to Meadow’s dorm, waiting outside as she watched Meadow speak to someone else.

Meadow looked up to see Carmela and the girl followed her line of sight and turned to see Carmela in the doorway.

“Hi, mom, this is Saskia Kupferberg. She’s part of the Legal Aid Society I told you about. We both volunteer at the South Bronx law center.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Soprano,” Saskia said, extending her hand. She was an overweight, butch girl. Her hair was cropped short and she wore sensible hoop earrings. She was a lesbian, this, Carmela was certain of.

Carmela frowned at the hand for a split second before she shook it and proceeded to flash her well-rehearsed smile.

“I’ll see you at the law center, Meadow. Bye, Mrs. Soprano.”

“It was nice to have met you,” Carmela replied as Saskia left the dorm.

“Would it kill you to take an interest in my friends every once in awhile?” Meadow hissed once she was confident Saskia was out of earshot.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Carmela insisted.

“Oh, please, I saw you grimace when she turned around, only to plaster that fake smile on your face a second later.”

Carmela rolled her eyes, “I thought I composed myself fairly well, you know, considering.”

“Considering what?” Meadow said icily.

“Nothing.”

Meadow glared at her. “One of these days this superior attitude you've got is going to catch up with you.”

Carmela opened her mouth to retort with another argument, but thought better of it. “Anyways, I brought you those CDs you wanted from home.”

She set the box down on Meadow’s bed. “Love you,” she said, kissing Meadow’s cheek before she left.

 

* * *

 

Carmela’s mind raced as she navigated her way through the parking lot back to her car.

That girl, Saskia, was obviously a lesbian and everything about the accusatory looks Meadow shot at her confirmed it.

Carmela was fascinated by the girl. She wondered how she figured it out for herself in the first place. Carmela wonders if she dated boys before she knew, and how the feelings were different -- the ones Saskia may have had about boys and the ones she had for girls.

Carmela thought back to when she fell in love with Tony and wondered what it would be like to experience that with another woman. She remembered their weekend trip to Long Beach Island with Artie and Charmaine when they broke up for the first time. Theirs was a volatile relationship to say the least, full of passion that when channeled the wrong way led to disaster. They broke up that particular time because Charmaine accused Artie of letting her drown. A wave had lifted her and tossed her around in the current, eventually slamming her head onto the sand --  this was unfortunate but not uncommon -- but according to her, Artie could swim better and should have been able to save her. Charmaine around water always spelled trouble. She remembered the time Tony went into the water to save Charmaine after she got cramps from eating a huge calzone, almost dragging him down by his hair into the surf. She may have been a spaz when it came to water, but Carmela vividly remembered tanning on the beach and watching Charmaine come back to the shore after taking a dip -- she reminded her of Elizabeth Taylor in that scene from  _ Suddenly, Last Summer _ . Her hair was slick and wet so that it looked jet black and her swim suit clung to her skin -- not even Carmela could help noticing her figure.

She remembered that trip was the first time Tony picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. It was that sheer strength and power of his that turned her on.

She concluded that her memories of falling in love with Tony were physical -- the long hair he once had, his broad shoulders, his strength, and the firmness of his hands. The memories that felt more like love to her, not just sex, were about Charmaine. She didn’t have pure, unscathed memories like those with Tony. She remembered the frivolity Charmaine channeled in her youth and the righteousness that she still had in her today.

What did it mean that her feelings of love for Charmaine were associated with not only her personality, but her smile and the intensity of her eyes? That she remembered falling in love with Tony’s power but not his mind? Maybe she was in love with Charmaine that summer. If anything it was probably just a phase.

 

* * *

 

Short breathy gasps escaped Carmela’s lips as Rosalie palmed her breasts, rubbing methodical circles around her nipples.

Carmela shivered as Rosalie ran her hands through Carmela’s hair and sucked at the skin just below Carmela’s ear.

Carmela shivered as Rosalie’s mouth followed an invisible equator along the center of her body from the hollow of her neck to between her breasts, and moans when Rosalie grazed her tongue along her abdomen.

Carmela ran her hands through her own hair when Rosalie kissed the inside of her thighs and inched her way slowly up to her sex.

Her muscles tensed up when Rosalie buried her tongue inside her, and Carmela writhed beneath her as Rosalie sucked her clit.

Carmela was at the brink of climax when Rosalie’s tongue moved in circles around her clit --

And, she was awake. It wasn’t real. She looked over, relieved, for once, that Tony was not in bed next to her. She looked at her alarm clock. 2 AM. She sighed and lied awake, staring at the ceiling, trying desperately to convince herself that it didn’t mean anything.

 

* * *

 

 

“Vegas, wanna get married by some Elvis impersonator?!” Carmela exclaimed, appalled by the notion of her cousin Christopher and Adriana getting married in some cheap Vegas casino.

“We would save money at least,” Adriana said defensively.

“No, it’s a sacrament, Ade. Why don’t we have it here where all your friends could come?” Carmela suggested, her face lighting up at just the thought of hosting an elegant affair in her home for Adriana.

“Yeah?” Ade replied, touched by the notion that Carmela would even consider such a thing for her.

“Yeah, yeah we’ll have it in the Great Room. Or, um, even in the yard if it’s nice out. We can have Artie cater it,” she suggested, her mind scrolling through the combinations of compatible arrangements.

“I think Christopher’s going to ask Tony to be his best man.”

“I am sure he will be honored. Does your mother know yet?”

“You’re the first person I’ve told.”

“We’ll decorate the whole house with mums!  And believe me, you will not save any money in Vegas. My cousin Jackie, and her husband, Tommy, sixty  _ thousand  _ at blackjack.”

“I’m getting married!”

“I know!”

 

* * *

 

Carmela smiled as she closed the door behind Adriana. She was, of course, overcome with joy that Adriana and Christopher were finally tying the knot. Adriana felt like family to her ever since Christopher and her started seeing each other. There was a warmth and purity Adriana possessed that was uncommon in the circles of women Carmela ran in. She sensed this about Adriana since she met at her at some Aprile family function or other.

A wave of sorrow washed over Carmela. The new and pure love that  Adriana and Christopher had made her think of the love she no longer shared with Tony and the growing feelings of…  _ something _ when she thought of Rosalie.

While Adriana would be swept up into a whirlwind of activity and a renewed sense of love for Christopher, Carmela felt like she would be forever stuck in the rut of looking upon her own husband with disdain and this inexplicable warmth pooling in her stomach every time she thought of her best friend.

 

* * *

 

Rosalie fidgeted in her seat as the women  _ ooh _ and  _ ah _ at every last mundane gift Adriana opened. Her mind was elsewhere. She kept glancing at Carmela, trying to figure out what was going on in her head, why she hadn’t talked to her since that kiss. Did she resent her? She had had enough.

Rosalie got up from her seat and walked to Carmela and leaned into her, quietly saying, “Carmela, can I see you in the kitchen for a second?”

“Why? What’s wrong?” Carmela asked.

“Nevermind, just come on,” Rosalie said shortly, grabbing Carmela by the wrist.

Carmela followed Rosalie into the kitchen. “What’s going on, Ro?”

“Carmela, I’m going to cut to the chase here. You can’t keep avoiding me. You’ve barely looked at me since the shower started and this is the first time I’ve spoken to you since that kiss. We’ve gotta talk about it,” she sighed, and softened, “I miss you. You walked out of my house without saying a word about what happened.”

“Rosalie, you know I love you. I always will, but I think that maybe this is something you should talk to Father Intintola about.”

“What?” Rosalie says, visibly recoiling.

“Listen, Ro, I’m willing to forget about it if you are. I really do believe in that ‘hate the sin, love the sinner’ philosophy.”

Rosalie rolled her eyes beneath her shut eyelids, and exhaled slowly.

“What I do about it is my business, okay?” Rosalie said tersely. “It was a mistake, you’re right,” she said hesitantly, “but what about us? Are we okay? Can we go back to the way we were before?”

“That’s what I want,” Carmela answered.

“Okay, but if I catch you treating me any different, I’m not gonna hesitate to call you on your shit.”

“Alright.” She extended her arms towards Rosalie who reluctantly accepted, contemplating her concerns about the conditions of their reconciliation.

Carmela felt her heart beating in her chest, the  _ lub dub _ ,  _ lub dub _ was so loud and fast that she thought surely Rosalie must have been able to feel it, too. 

She was crestfallen that Rosalie thought that it was a mistake. Why was this still happening to her? She had prayed for the both of them every night since that fucking kiss that changed everything and yet her stomach still dropped as if she was a little kid on a rollercoaster as soon with Rosalie pressed against her chest.

 

* * *

 

As Carmela straightened out one of Tony’s jackets from the laundry basket, she heard a  _ click _ sound and she looked down to see a fake nail that landed on a navy stripe on the bed. 

She picked it up and held it in her palm to inspect it. It was a silver color, studded with rhinestones at the tip. It didn’t belong to her, and Meadow had long ago vowed never to don acrylic nails, for reasons she refused to disclose.

She shook her head as the pieces fell into place. This nail was the concrete proof that confirmed her suspicions -- Tony was fucking other women again, cheating on her, dishonoring their vows that he time and time again promised to uphold, swearing  _ this _ goomar or  _ that _ goomar would be the last.

She threw the jacket across the room in frustration. She wished that she hadn’t found it. Ignorance really is fucking bliss. The comfort she got from the “out of sight, out of mind” rule she adopted shattered. Now with physical evidence in her fist, she can’t go on deluding herself into believing that Tony is the good and gentle man she married.

 

* * *

 

Carmela sat in bed, seething, attempting to read  _ The Mists of Avalon  _ to take her mind off of the nagging thought that Tony is probably off screwing that fucking whore. Perhaps it was the overwhelming empowerment she experienced coupled with reading Arthurian legends from the female perspective that brought a devious idea to the forefront of her thoughts.

She launched the book across the room and got out of bed, pacing her way over to the window. She peered out at her backyard. She retrieved her robe and a flashlight, and made her way to Tony’s chest in the yard, only to find it locked. She knew that he was hiding something in there, but she didn’t know what. She did know, however, that it would piss him off if she found out. She wrestled with it for a few seconds before grabbing a shovel and attacking the lock with the blade. 

She gave up. For the moment.

 

* * *

 

_ “It’s just so heartbreaking to hear those, those women talk about what they were going through and what they are going through. The second woman, Joan, her case is really not very unusual. Her husband was the financial planner, she really did not have much involvement with the finances at the home. What are your thoughts on that?” _

It was the combination of the image of that fucking nail in her brain, and the reports of financially dependent women on CNBC, and the incessant goddamn sound of Tony’s shower serenades that gave Carmela the guts to act, fast.

_ “Women have the feeling that they’re not confident. Men tend to be overconfident, actually, in the financial area --” _

She got up from the bed and cracked open the bathroom door to see Tony’s obliviously singing in the shower: “We don’t need no do da dee da. We don’t need no thought control. _ ” _

_ “And women have to take responsibility and have to accept the fact that something like this could happen --” _

She grabbed her robe and Tony’s keys from the bedside table. She wrapped herself in the robe and found a flashlight before trekking out into the yard.

_ “You have to have a contingency plan if your husband doesn’t come home --” _

Tony was fucking around near that chest back here and she’d bet her life that his stash is was in it. Sure enough, the key unlocked the chest and she found thousands of dollars hidden in his duck feed. She took a good chunk, locked the chest, and quickly made her way back to the house to return his keys and search for a place to hide the bills.

 

* * *

 

She went through the motions of counting out the bills, knowing full well that the sum would total $9,900.

“Nine thousand nine hundred,” she stated.

“Interestingly, at ten thousand dollars, we’re required by law to notify the IRS of the transaction,” the bank employee told her.

“Oh, really,” she nods her head passively. “I want it in something safe, something old economy. Maybe treasuries.”

The man nods and she crosses Morgan Schwim off of her list.

 

~~ Charles Schneer                     9.9 x 2 ~~

~~ Countner/Frank                     9.9 ~~

~~ Morgan Schwim                     9.9 ~~

Bloom Roth                            9.9          

 

There was no way she was going to let herself become like those women on the news.

 

* * *

 

Tony found the nail that Carmela strategically placed on his night table after having discovered thousands of dollars missing from his duck feed stash. He went downstairs to find Carmela reading at the kitchen table. 

“Coffee, Ton’?” She asked.

“Any decaf?”

“Decaf?”

“No, forget it. Regular’s fine.”

“I can make decaf.”

“That’d be great. Thanks.”

Carmela began preparing the coffee. “Something wrong, Tony?”

“No. Why?”

AJ walked into the kitchen and Tony asked him, “You been in the backyard the last couple of days?”

“Me? It’s freezing out there,” AJ said.

“You sure? The pool guy come around?”

“Why would he?” Carmela asked.

“Check up on stuff? Something?”

“Alright, I’m going upstairs,” AJ said.

“It’ll only take a minute,” Carmela said to Tony before sitting back down at the table. Carmela looked up at him. “You’re sure, Tony? There’s not something you want to talk about?”

“No. Like what?”

Carmela didn’t respond. Quid pro quo. An eye for an eye. He fucked some whore and left evidence for her to find, and denied the problem. She stole fifty thousand dollars from her ungrateful son of a bitch husband.

 

* * *

 

Rosalie cautiously entered Justin’s hospital room. She found the young boy barely clinging to life, breathing through all sorts of tubes, with Ralph kneeling at the foot of his bed.

“Ralph,” she said.

“Rosalie,” he said, “Oh, Jesus,” he whispered, rising to meet her.

“I didn’t know if I should come.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“I know,” she said, drawing him into a hug.

“I’m so happy to see you.”

“How is he?”

“Not as good as yesterday.”

“How are you?”

“I just didn’t understand what you were going through, Ro. I didn’t know anything. I was stupid, I’m sorry. I apologize.”

“It’s okay,” she said. It isn’t, but that’s not what he needed to hear. “I mean there’s no way to know what it’s like until it happens to you.”   


“You were so strong when Jackie, Jr. passed away. I don’t know how you did it.”

“Justin’s gonna be alright, Ralph. You’ll see,” she said, embracing him again. “He’s gonna be fine,” she said, patting his back.

 

* * *

 

“He’s gonna be a vegetable,” she said plainly to Carmela at their table in Vesuvio’s. 

Carmela made the full sign of the cross.

“At least I have a daughter,” Rosalie said, “Ralph’s all alone. I told him he should go and talk to Father Intintola.”

“He should,” Carmela agreed.

“He won’t.”

 

* * *

 

After hearing the doorbell ring, Carmela answered the door to find Rosalie on her doorstep.

“Carmela, you’re never gonna believe what just happened with Ralph and me.”

“Oh, yeah?” She supplied, leading Rosalie to sit down with her in the living room.

“Ralph had a long talk with Father Intintola and I think he finally got some sense knocked into him. Ralph put in for a scholarship at Rutger’s in Jackie Jr.’s name for twenty thousand dollars.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Every year, too.”

“Wow, you know, just when you think a person can’t change,” Carmela wondered aloud.

“There’s, um, something else, too, Carm.”

“What?” she asked.

“Ralph proposed to me. Got down on one knee and everything,” Rosalie waited, trying to gauge Carmela’s reaction. She hasn’t really given on up hope on this  _ thing _ between them.

Carmela waited in suspense for Rosalie to elaborate. If Rosalie agreed to marry that fucking shitbag, she didn’t know what she would do. “You didn’t say yes, right?”

“Well,” Rosalie hesitated, “I didn’t say yes. But I really didn’t say no either.”

“Oh,” Carmela said, deflated. “What exactly did you say?”

“I told him no up front. But I said… maybe a few months, a few years down the line if he got his shit together that I might consider.”

“You did?” Just the thought of Rosalie with that pig made her sick.

“It was mostly just to make him feel better. An empty promise. And, I’m getting old, Carm. I gotta keep my options open.”

Carmela looked at Rosalie and opened her mouth to speak, before thinking better of it. She started again, “Well, listen Rosalie, I’ve got a hair appointment, I’ve got to go to, but I’ll talk to you later, okay?” She said.

“Are you sure you’ve got to go right now? I just got here.”

“I got caught up in your little story and didn’t check my watch till now,” she said, getting up to show Rosalie out.

“Well, I’ll catch up with you later, Carm.”

AJ came down from the stairs to see his mother crying as she watched Rosalie leave the driveway. There was always something going on with her. Which was weird because all she did was stay home all day. Whatever. He walked past her to the kitchen to grab a soda.

 

* * *

 

“So, AJ, what are you, a junior?” Finn asked.

“No, uh, next year,” AJ replied.

“You looking at any schools yet?”

“Not really. I’ll go to Rutgers, I guess.”

“Are you passing everything?” Meadow asked.

“I got a C on a paper I did on  _ Billy Budd _ ,” AJ said, perking up.

“A C?” Carmela asked, taken aback.

“He usually gets Ds and Fs. What’s with you today, you okay?” Tony asked.

“He worked so hard on it. Why only a C?” Carmela asked.

“I don’t know,” AJ said defensively. Carmela rolled her eyes.

“Did you like  _ Billy Budd _ ?” Finn asked.

“It was okay. My teacher says it’s a gay book,” AJ replied.

“Mr. Wegler? Oh, that is ridiculous,” Carmela said, rolling her eyes again.

“I’ve heard that before,” Finn said. Alex and Colin nodded in agreement.

“That was written when? The nineteenth century?” Carmela asked.

“Yeah, I didn’t even know they had fags back then,” AJ remarked.

“AJ!” Meadow exclaimed.

“No offense,” Tony said to Colin.

“I’m not gay.”

“You’re not?”

“No.”

“I read where they found gay cave drawings in Africa,” Finn said.

“Really?” Alex questioned further before Finn, Colin, and Meadow giggled. “Shut up,” she said playfully.

“This stuff is pervading our educational system. Not to mention movies, TV shows,” Carmela said.

“What stuff?” Meadow asked.

“This gay nonsense they’re teaching. I’m sorry, but Billy Budd is not a homosexual book.”

“Actually, it is, mother.”

“I saw the movie, Meadow, with Terence Stamp.”

“Terence Stamp was in  _ Priscilla Queen of the Desert _ ,” Colin said.

“Well, I don’t know about that, but  _ Billy Budd  _ is the story of an innocent sailor getting picked on by an evil boss,” Carmela said.

“Who’s picking on him out of self-loathing caused by homosexual feelings in a military context,” Meadow asserted.

“Oh, please!” Carmela exclaimed vehemently.

“Okay,” Meadow said dismissively.

“Actually, Mrs. Soprano, there is a passage within the book where Melville compares Billy to a nude statue of Adam before the fall,” Alex said. 

“Really?” AJ asked, appalled.

“Thought you read it,” Tony said.

“So, it’s a biblical reference, does that make it gay?” Carmela asked.

“Oh, what’s the difference, huh?” Tony asked.

“I’m just saying it’s ridiculous how everything is being sold as homosexual nowadays.”

“Must be a gay book. Billy Budd’s the ship’s florist, right?” Tony joked. 

“Leslie Fiedler has written extensively about gay themes in literature since the early 60s,  _ Billy Budd  _ in particular,” Meadow said.

“Well, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about!” Carmela stated.

“She’s a he, mother, and he’s lectured at Columbia, as a matter of fact.”

“Well, maybe he’s gay, you ever thought of that?” She asked.

An awkward silence settled in the room. Carmela was unsettled -- Meadow was living the kind of life that she wanted for herself, with her dentist boyfriend and her worldly friends. She had just exposed herself as fitting a type: the housewife whose expertise does not extend far beyond fine Italian cuisine. Her views were outdated and she felt rotten inside because her words came from a place of fear that she could be like the _ Billy Budd _ her daughter believed in.

 

* * *

 

Carmela sat, hunched over, on the lip of the bathtub in the master bathroom. Tiny gasps escaped her lips as the tears rolled down her cheeks. Her head felt like it was going to split open. The fact that Rosalie would even consider Ralph, hurt her. Even though she stopped whatever they had dead in its tracks, her chest ached at the thought that she wasn’t enough for her. 

She heard the phone ring and walked to her bed to pick up the receiver. “Hello.”

“Hey, it’s me. What are you doing?” Meadow asked.

“Nothing, just reading. You alright?” Carmela asked, adjusting her voice to conceal her sorrow.

“Yeah, I just wanted to talk to you. Did I do something to piss you off?” Meadow inquired.

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, I know you were kind of mad at me the other night.”

“Why would I be mad?”

“I don’t know. Anyway, the reason I called -- it’s kind of near my birthday and I was thinking we’d do our tradition,” she said hopefully. “Go the Plaza for tea under Eloise’s picture.”

“Really, that’s so wonderful,” Carmela said, struggling to conceal the lump in her throat.

Meadow heard her mother sniffle. “Are you crying?”

“I’m just happy. That’s so thoughtful,” she lied.

“I was thinking tomorrow, it’s the only day I have before we go to Canada,” Meadow said.

“Well, I have my nails in the morning, but I could drive in and meet you after that.”   
  
“Actually, I’m gonna be on the West Side, maybe you can pick me up?”

“Sure. I’ll take the George Washington Bridge.”

“Why would you take the bridge if you’re going to Midtown?”

“I know how to get to the city, Meadow,” Carmela said tersely. Another example of her daughter questioning her judgment.

“Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow. How’s one o’clock?”

“That’s fine.”

“On second thought, I’ll just meet you there. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

 

* * *

 

“I brought these,” Carmela said, holding up the white gloves that she and Meadow wore year after year at the Plaza until Meadow decided she was above it.

“Sorry, I am not wearing the gloves. Soprano family tradition notwithstanding,” Meadow remarked.

“I didn’t think so. But I’m wearing mine,” Carmela smiled and slipped her hands into the gloves. 

“Where’d you park?”

“There’s a lot over on 57th street. Is that okay, or would you like to lecture me on parking, too?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, I figured since you’re also an authority on driving directions.”

“Very funny.”

“Not to mention literature.”

“So it’s the  _ Billy Budd  _ thing. I was merely pointing out to you what serious literary critics have to say about the book.”

Carmela ignored Meadow’s comment and remarked, “These looks delicious,” when the waiter brought out an arrangement of finger sandwiches. “So how is Finn? When are you leaving for Montreal?”

“Wednesday morning. He’s gonna pick me up at home. I have my ski clothes there so I’m gonna stay over the night before and do some laundry.”

Carmela stared back at her. “Is that a problem?” Meadow asked.

“No, of course not, as long as he stays in the guest room.”

“He’s not staying, Mother.”   


“Well, the way you two hang on each other…”

“Well, excuse me, Mrs. Danvers. What do you have against love?” she asked pointedly.

“Nothing,” Carmela said, fighting tears.

“Why are you not happy for me?” Carmela cleared her throat. “What are you jealous? Just cause you and dad are middle-aged?”

“Watch it, young lady.”

“What am I, a child?” She asked incredulously.

“Actually, yes. Your apartment in Manhattan notwithstanding.”

“What?” She asked, noting her mother parroting back her own vocabulary back at her.

“And, I’m sure your friend, the princess, found us quite amusing.”

“You’re the one who wanted me to go to an Ivy League school. These are the type of people who go there. There are also people who grew up without indoor plumbing, but you would know even less about them,” ready to spar her mother, challenge her, assert her moral superiority because she knows she’s right. “Would you rather I transfer to Montclair state? Then maybe I can drop out like you did.” Meadow leaned back, taking stock of the damage that she inflicted upon her mother. 

“I’m sorry,” Carmela sighed.

“I invited you here to have a nice time, not to belittle me. Maybe you’d be happier if I didn’t come around anymore.”

“Except that won’t happen, because you’ll need money in about a week,” Carmela said, giving into Meadow’s game. Because she was vulnerable and because Meadow deserved it.

“You know what? To hell with not coming around, I’ll just transfer to Northwestern so I can be near Finn when he goes.”

The pair sat in silence, unwilling to reconcile, admit their wrongdoings. Meadow determined not to own up to exposing Carmela’s soft underbelly, her most sensitive failure. Carmela unwilling to apologize for her behavior, to admit the inferiority she’s confronted with when she looks at Meadow’s established lifestyle. Accepting defeat was not an option so they chose to wallow in their mutual discomfort.

 

* * *

 

Carmela makes the sign of the cross over her chest and began, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been four weeks since my last confession,” Carmela said, feeling trapped in the small booth.

“I willfully entertained impure thoughts about someone... Not my husband. Thoughts about another woman. Father, I don’t know what to do. I have since prayed to God for it to stop, but I think I may have… romantic feelings for this woman,” Carmela said. She felt soiled, having admitted this out loud, even in the house of God.

“You must repent. You must not entertain these impure thoughts in the future. You must remain devoted to your marriage for this union is one you vowed to maintain until death parts you from your husband. These feelings you have for this woman, you are probably confused. God’s grace will help you find your way,” the priest said through the partition.

“I am sorry for these and all of my sins.”

“For your penance, pray one Hail Mary.”

“My God, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart. In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned against You, whom I should love above all things. I firmly intend, with the help of Your grace, to sin no more and avoid whatever leads me to sin. Our savior, Jesus Christ, suffered and died for us. In His name, my God, have mercy,” Carmela recited, her voice wavering as she realized this promise meant avoiding Rosalie, purging her from her life until she was spiritually capable of facing her again.

“God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son, has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace. I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

“Amen.”

 

* * *

 

Carmela kneeled at her bedside and recited the Hail Mary prayer as the priest instructed her.

“Hail Mary, full of grace. Our Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of death. Amen.”

As she finished, she felt a lump rise in her throat.                                 

She wanted to die. She wanted to crawl in a hole, throw herself in a ditch, something, and just fucking die. Evaporate into nothingness. Because what she felt was unnatural, unholy, against the teachings of the Church. She was unfaithful to her husband in the most serious way. She was spoiled. Because she wanted to run her hands along Rosalie’s skin, inhale the sweet scent of her hair, taste her lips. But that was wrong. It was a sin. She could rationalize it all she wanted, but how could God love her when the love she felt was an abomination?

She wiped the tears from her face as she heard Tony stomp his way up the stairs, slid under the covers and pretended to be asleep. But she lied there, hating herself for feeling the way she did and hating herself even more for questioning if God’s grace could really help her sort through this complicated web that she had woven.

 

* * *

 

“So, Carmela, what brings you to my office today,” Dr. Melfi asked her.

Carmela felt vulnerable with just a tiny table separating her and Dr. Melfi in her practically barren office, its wooden walls closing in on her. “I…,” she began and paused before continuing, closing her eyes to find the right words. “I’m having trouble reconciling Catholicism with some, well, unnatural feelings that I’ve been experiencing. And I know that’s not really in your job description, but I feel like I need some perspective. If I talked to anyone in my church or any of my friends they wouldn’t understand what my issues are.”

“I see. What exactly are these ‘unnatural feelings’ that you mentioned?”

“I, um,” she took in a deep breath “Well, a few weeks ago I visited my best friend, Rosalie, at her home. She had just broken up with her boyfriend and our friend had just died, and I knew that she had been especially vulnerable since her son Jackie was killed by drug dealers last year. I wanted to make sure she was holding up okay,” she looked up at Melfi to see if she knew where this story was heading, but found that her face revealed nothing. “Anyway, I was right, I found her in tears so I sat next to her on her bed and we ate some ziti I brought over. Edith Piaf was playing. I was telling her all the things she needs from a good guy and that the guy she was seeing was none of those things – you know, someone who puts her first. And then she told me that she already had someone in her life who was all those things and that I was that person. And… she kissed me.”

“I see. Did you reciprocate her advances?”

Carmela paused for a moment, considering. “Maybe for a split second. But ever since then, I’ve been thinking about her more and more. Sexually… romantically even.”

“How does your Catholicism factor into this conflict?”

“The thing is Dr. Melfi, I’ve never felt as good as I do with her. And it’s always been like that, but now it’s more intense. My stomach does somersaults when I think of her. But homosexuality, that’s a sin. Any love I might have for her doesn’t conform to God’s design – for man and woman to come together in holy matrimony for the purpose of procreation. I feel as if every time I think of her that I’m in some way betraying God. At the same time, though, I feel so alive, more present every day, like I have something more to live for.”

“Carmela, if I may, could I offer an alternative way for you to look at your relationship with religion?”

She nodded her head in consent.

“It might help you to look at Catholicism and focus on its moral teachings, paying special attention to the passages about Jesus. He’s only in four books, as you know: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John -- the four gospels. When you look at these different books, they are Jesus’s story told in different ways. These discrepancies indicate the discretion the narrators take, only interpretations of God’s word. Man is an imperfect vessel for the re-telling of his story. And remember that Jesus did not speak about homosexuality.

“I’ve had a few homosexual patients who disclosed with me that they interpret passages in the Bible referencing homosexuality as being about lust, God driving home the idea that sex should occur with someone you have a strong emotional attachment to,” Melfi continued.

“I see,” Carmela said, detached.

“I recommend that you refine what exactly these feelings are. If they are as pure as you have indicated, read scripture with a more pragmatic outlook and decide for yourself if God would frown upon a relationship with this woman.”

 

* * *

 

Carmela was once again at Rosalie’s doorstep, pressing the buzzer in anticipation.

Rosalie opened the door and as soon as her eyes meet Carmela’s, Carmela melted, her shoulders drooping and tears welling up in her eyes.

“Oh, Carm,” Rosalie said and wrapped her arm around her, guiding her into the house and sitting her down on the couch. “What’s going on, Carm?” she asked, her worries about Carmela’s judgment of her evaporating.

“Rosalie, I… I feel this burning guilt in the pit of my stomach. I think of you and it’s like I’m experiencing this stupid puppy love, like I’m a teenager or something. And, I know it’s wrong. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t make it go away. I know there’s Tony and I know it’s a sin but I think of you and I’m overcome with this invigorating physical sensation unlike anything I’ve ever felt before and I start to remember all these beautiful times we’ve shared. I hate myself for liking the way you make me feel. And I know that’s not fair to you, but that’s where I am. I think I love you, Ro, but I’m going to need time to be completely okay with this,” she confessed, her sentences blurring together. 

“I know it must be harder for you because you’re more religious than I am. You’re right. We go slow, see where it goes,” she said as she brushes Carmela’s bangs from her forehead and wiped a tear from her face. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Carmela looked up and smiled. She leaned into Rosalie and Carmela pressed her lips against hers, their tongues colliding, lips harmoniously parting and coming back together again. When they parted, Rosalie kissed her again on her forehead. She felt like a heavy load had been lifted off of her shoulders. She felt raw from baring her soul, but she was liberated by her confession.

 

* * *

 

“Ma, telephone!” AJ shouted to Carmela.

“Who is it?” Carmela called down from her bedroom.

“I don’t know!” AJ shouted back. 

Carmela picked up the phone in her bedroom, “Hello?” AJ hung up on his line.

“Is this Mrs. Soprano’s?” A voice with a Russian accent asked.

“Yes, it is,” Carmela said.

“I used to fuck your husband,” she said.

Startled, Carmela hung up the phone. The phone rang and she shouted, “AJ, I’ve got it!” She composed herself before answering again. “Hello.”

“Tony loves me, you know. If it wasn’t for his kids, you would be out on the street.”

“What do you want?”

“Well, I thought you might want to know we have some sadness in common. He’s been sleeping with my cousin, Svetlana. That’s right. While she was taking care of his uncle.”

Carmela breathed heavily, absorbing the news the Russian told her.

“Hello?” She asked.

“You piece of sh-shit,” Carmela stammered.

“Yes, I’m a piece of shit. I’m a piece of shit which the world every morning strains and pushes out of its butt. So, if you can, imagine where you are in the pecking order.”

“You call my house again, you ever speak to one of my children again, I will track you down and I will kill you. We have got guns here. I mean it.”

“You remember my cousin. She was also his mama’s caregiver with the one leg. This is so absurd, why would I make it up?”

Carmela hung up the phone, staring blankly ahead. There was no way for her to rationalize her husband’s behavior anymore. It was present and it affected her life at home, her children. She could not take one more ounce of suffering. One more night sleeping in the same bed as that man. Who disrespected her, who wrought havoc wherever he went, who would rather fuck a one-legged Russian woman than his own wife.

All of Tony’s shit, whatever she can find, she threw it out the window. His golf clubs. His clothing. His dry cleaning. She wants him  _ out _ .

“Carmela!” Tony shouted as he opened the front door, only to be ambushed by shoes from Carmela on the stairs. “The fuck are you doing?!”

“Fucking shitbag!” She yelled at him, throwing another shoe at him for good measure.

He started to ascend the stairs and Carmela warns, “Don’t come up here! Get the fuck out of this house!” She disappeared into the bedroom and locked the door behind her.

Tony tried the door before saying, “Carm! What’s the matter? Carm, what did I do now, huh?” He knocked on the door. “Carm? What did I do? Huh, what did I do? Your mother told you what I said to your father about his psoriasis? I was just trying to be honest with him!”

Carmela thrust the door open. “You have made a fool of me for years with these whores, now it’s come into our home?”

“What are you talking about?”   


“The Russian called. Your son answered the telephone.”

“Aw, Jesus. She’s insane. She’s fucking certifiable, I told you! You can’t believe nothing she says, whatever it is! And, we haven’t seen each other -- like that. I swear to Christ. I told you!”

“What about her cousin?”

“What? No.”

“The nurse who took care of your mother. Who I liked. Who I talked to on the telephone about your mother’s alopecia and her bowel movements. Who you told me came from an agency. Who I shared vodka with the night your mother died. You’ve been fucking her?!”

“There is not a shred of truth to that.”

“Why would the cousin make it up?” She asked. “Because she’s jealous!” She shouted, launching herself at Tony, grabbing at him, his shirt, whatever fabric she could hold onto. He struggled against her and slammed her against the wall. “Let go of me!” She shouted. 

He unpinned her from the wall and her breathing became even more rushed and frantic. She walked back into the bedroom. She clawed at her face, kneading her skin, trying to gain some semblance of reality, to ground herself. 

“Carm.”

“Just get out, Tony. Don’t even say anything,” she said, exhausted. She feels limp, fragile, as if he sucked all the life force out of her over the years and she finally deflated into nothingness.

“I’m not going anywhere and you know it,” he said. “So let’s just lie down, we’ll calm down” he said soothingly, reaching out to touch her shoulder only to have his wife whip around and knock his arm off of her body.

“Get your hands off of me! Don’t you touch me ever again.”

“Where’s AJ?”

“So you’ve had a one-legged one, now, huh? That’s nice. You’ve had quite a time on my watch. The pre-school assistant, the weight-lifter…”

“At least I never stole from you,” he said, getting in her face.

“Who stole, Tony? Who, me?” She asked, practically challenging him to push further.

“My own wife, forty grand, from the bird feeder!”

“Bird feeder, listen to yourself, you sound demented!”

“You wanna hit me, Tony? Go ahead,” she dared him. “Just go away, please. I can’t stand it anymore!” She exclaimed, turning away from him again rubbing her forehead, pushing the hair from her face.

“I didn’t do any --”

“I found her fingernail, Tony! You saw it that day on your night table. I found it and I put it there. I know you saw it.”

“That --”

“What? That what?” She asked, challenging him.

“Nothing. Nothing,” he said, turning away from her.

“I mean…” she started.

“What?”

“You know what I don’t understand, Tony?” She pursed her lips. “What does she have that I don’t have?” She sobbed.

“I did not carry on an affair with the cousin and I will take a goddamn polygraph to that effect.”

“I want you to leave this house, Tony. Please. I want you to leave me alone.”

“What about the kids?”   
  
“Yeah, it’s horrible. God help them.”   
  
She sat down at the foot of the bed and her body was racked with sobs again, reminded of the burden that she would be responsible for resting on her children’s shoulders. She sobbed because life will not be the same for her, because she would be forced to live differently, independently, something she’d never really done before and it was fucking petrifying.

 

* * *

 

Carmela turned her head as she heard the sound of Meadow padding down the stairs into the kitchen. “Hi,” she said half-heartedly.

“Hi,” Meadow replied, barely audible.

“Did you get any sleep?” Carmela asked.

“A little, I think.”

“Maybe it would be better if you went back to school, got your head into your school work, be with your friends…” Carmela trailed off.

“I’d just be thinking about what’s going on here all the time,” she paused and continued, “I just keep thinking, I used to feel so superior because so many of my friends had these fucked-up divorced parents.”

“I guess I did, too,” Carmela admitted.

“And, like, Finn. I’m not saying we want kids, but if we did, I used to imagine… we’d all be together on the holidays, Christmas, all around this big fire.”

“You will have a wonderful future, Meadow. We had a lot of wonderful times as a family.”

Disdain flooded Meadow’s expression. “All predicated on bullshit.”

“I don’t want to fight with you, Meadow. That’s not true. I think you know it.”

“It was because of Rosalie, wasn’t it?” she asked, choosing her words carefully, her heavy implication hidden between the lines. “AJ said some things.”

“Who said anything about Rosalie?” she retorted. Not looking at her daughter, but focusing on a point in space beyond her head she says, “I have never been unfaithful to your father.”

She hated herself for feeding this bullshit to her daughter. Sure, she had never slept with Rosalie, or any man for that matter (a kind of faithfulness Tony could never offer her), but did that really matter when she was emotionally and spiritually tied to Rosalie in a way that she never was to Tony? She kissed Rosalie, dreamt of her, loved her. Where did she draw the line?

“Daddy was.”

“This is not something I want to talk about. I’m sorry. Not now, not ever.”

Meadow felt the pain grip her tighter because her mother’s words encapsulated a sentiment that her family never outgrew. Shut the fuck up and the problem didn’t exist. She assumed this was how her fucked-up parents endured their unhealthy marriage, reassembling the fractured relationship with whatever was lying around – duct tape or fucking crazy glue – it was a sham. 

“Jesus, how could you eat shit from him for all those years?” Meadow demanded from her mother, and ran back to her room because she knew no answer her mother could give her would explain away the fraudulent years that she spent with her family.

 

* * *

 

Startled by Tony’s reflection in the dark window behind the kitchen sink, she dropped the silverware in her hands. She turned around to find her husband’s presence looming over.

“Jesus, you scared me to death,” she said.

He sauntered over to the refrigerator, claiming what he surely believed was rightfully his, but she thwarted his plan to assert his precious dominance over her and blocked his attempt to get his grubby hands on a slab of meat. She slammed the refrigerator door closed as he tried to open it.

“This is my house, Carmela, and I’m not leaving,” he said.

“Get out of here, Tony. I asked you once nicely,” she said, struggling to keep her tone even.

“All right, look. I know what happened was wrong. I was an asshole. And I apologize. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again” he said before trying the refrigerator door again.

She slammed it shut again. She couldn’t fucking believe his nerve. Attempting to explain away a behavior that he couldn’t even pinpoint if she asked. “I said get out.”

“Make me,” he said, as if this was a game, as if this was a temporary inconvenience in his unceasing hedonistic lifestyle.

“I have an appointment with a lawyer, Tony. I will get a restraining order.”

“A lawyer? Go ahead. Go on, call him. Here. Use my phone,” he said, generously taking his flip phone out for her to dial a lawyer who would ultimately be unable to help her. She knocked it out of his hands.

“Fine. Stay,” she said, uninterested in indulging his game.

“Come here,” he said, forcefully pinning her down against the kitchen counter. “You’re not going anywhere,” he remarked, as if she was his prey, another meal for him to shove down his throat.

“Let go! Your son will be home. You want him to see his father like this?” she demanded frantically, appealing to whatever small part of him gave a shit what his son thought, whatever small part of him cared about maintaining the illusion of the well-meaning husband and father.

“Yeah, you’d love that, wouldn’t you? I’m not leaving here, Carmela.”

“I don’t love you anymore! I don’t want you! You are not sleeping in my bed, Tony! The thought of it now makes me sick!”

He let her free from his grasp, glaring at her as he returned to the refrigerator.

“Jesus Christ almighty, I’m going fucking crazy!” she exclaimed because she was. There is no order in her home with his presence, with him being aggressively  _ there _ . There was no order in her house and so there was no order in her head. She couldn’t sort anything out.

She climbed the stairs in an attempt to escape from him, to her bedroom, to quiet.

 

* * *

 

Carmela was washing her dishes, when she looked out upon her yard to see Tony floating on a green raft in the center of the pool. Here he was again, invading her space against her wishes.

She walked out onto the deck of the pool and stared at him.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi.”

“What?” He sighed.

“I was wondering when you were going to move those theatre seats down to the garage.”

“Seriously? That’s what you came out here to talk to me about?”

“They’re on the lawn, Tony. They’re gonna ruin the grass.”

“‘Bad for the grass, bad for the grass!’” He mocked.

“I can’t put the sprinklers on over there, Tony, without the seats getting wet. They’re your seats. I don’t wanna wreck them.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

“Why do you have to make even this little thing so difficult?”

“What possible reason could you have for coming out here, talking to me about theatre seats except to bust my balls?”

“I wanted to water while I was out.”

“Yeah, right,” Tony said, freeing himself from the green raft.

“Fuck you.”

“That’s gonna cost you three dollars,” he said as he walks out of the pool.

“You know what, Tony? What’s done is done. We are where we are, and it’s for the best. But just for the record, or it might even interest you to know, that I might actually have gone on with your cheating and your bullshit if your attitude around here had been the least bit loving… cooperative, interested.”

He pulled out a Cuban cigar, “Whose idea was Whitecaps?”

“It’s just a bigger version of an emerald ring. So you can keep on with your other life.”

“You don’t know me at all.”

“I know you better than anybody, Tony, even your friends. Which is probably why you hate me.”

“Hate you?” He paused, smiling with the Cuban between his teeth. “Well, don’t worry. I’m going to hell when I die. Nice thing to say to a person heading into an MRI,” he walked away to the poolhouse.

She followed him there. She admitted, “You know, Tony… I have always been sorry I said that. You were my guy. You could be so sweet. Nobody could make me laugh like you.”

“Carmela, who the fuck did you think I was when you married me? You knew my father. You grew up around Dickie Moltisanti and your Uncle Eddie. Where do you get off getting all surprised and miffed when there are women on the side? You knew the deal.”

“Deal?”

“And your mother can talk all she wants about what’s-his-name and his fucking chain of drug stores, but you and I both know the other boyfriend you were debating marrying was Jerry Tufi with his father’s snowplow business. And we now know that that wouldn’t have suited you at all.”

“You really don’t hear me, do you? You think for me it’s all about things.”

“No, no, I forced all this shit on you. What you really crave is a little Hyundai and a simple gold heart on a chain.”

“You are so fucking hateful,” Carmela said and Tony took a swig of his drink.

“Can I tell you something, Tony?”   
  
“Don’t pretend like I gotta choice.”

Carmela took a chance. Because what was Tony going to do? Hit her? Maybe. Kill her like he did Richie Aprile? Fat fucking chance that he’d let go the best thing that ever happened to him, the single right decision he’d ever made, that he’d stain his reputation further by murdering his wife. “The last year, I have been dreaming, and fantasizing, and in love with Rosalie Aprile.”

He laughed and turned around to face her. “What?” He asked.

“All those days that we would go shopping, or to book club, or for lunch at Vesuvio’s, I would look forward to it all night long in bed next to you. Those nights you were actually in the bed. When she would ring the doorbell, I felt like my heart would come out of my chest. We would smile and we’d talk and then you would pop into my head. And I felt probably like someone who is terminally ill and somehow they manage to forget it for a minute. And then it all comes back.”

Tony pinned Carmela to the wall and raised his fist just a few inches from her face, but Carmela dove out of the way so he punched the wall behind her. He punched it again and again.

“She talks to you? Oh, poor you!”

“She makes me feel like I matter!”

“You asked me what Irina’s cousin has that you don’t have. And I thought about it, because it’s a pretty good fucking question. And yeah, she’s sexy enough even with the one pin gone, but that’s not it. I could converse with her ‘cause she had something to say!”

“I am here! I have things to say!” She said, pressing her hands to her chest for emphasis. 

“Besides ‘Bring the chairs down’ and ‘Did you sign the living trust?’ She’s a grown fucking woman who’s been kicked around and she’s been on her own and she’s had to fight and struggle.”

“Unlike me? Is that it? Who the fuck wanted it like this?! Who the fuck pissed and moaned at just the idea of me with a fucking real-estate license?!”

“Free to sit back for twenty fucking years and fiddle with the air conditioning and fucking bitch and complain, and fucking, bitch, bitch, bitch! To me! To your priest! Fuck it!”

“Who knew all this time you wanted Tracy and Hepburn,” she paused a beat, “Well, Tony, what about the thousand other fucking pigs you had your dick in over the years? The strippers, the cocktail waitresses. Were you best friends with all of them, too? You fucking hypocrite.”

 

* * *

 

Carmela pressed the cheese into the cheese grader as Tony entered the kitchen with a duffel bag in hand. 

“I didn’t know you were in the house,” Carmela said.

“Just stopped by to pick up a few things.”

“Fine.”

“Turn that off and come here,” Tony said to AJ who was on the couch watching some mind numbing television show. “I got something to say to your mother, I might as well tell you at the same time.”

“It’s almost over,” AJ said.

“Now,” Tony said and AJ shut off the TV.

“I’ve been thinking about things. Me living out there. And I’ve decided it’s probably not a good idea.”

Meadow descended the stairs and walked in on the conversation with dirty dishes in hand. “What’s going on?” She asked. 

“I was just telling everybody, it’s probably better if I don’t live here anymore.”

“Because I wanted to stay in there with you? I won’t ask. I just got pissed off,” AJ said.

“He asked to live with you?” Carmela asked, heartbroken. The reality of the separation dawned on her. The impact it will have on both her children. Choosing sides, picking fights. The devastation left nothing unscathed.

“No, AJ. Come here,” he said, reaching out to give AJ a hug, “That’s not why.”

“Where are you gonna go?” Meadow asked, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, and brings Meadow into his arms as well.

Carmela, watched from a distance, seeing that not only would she be divorced from her husband, but also from her children who would always favor him.

“You should go back to counseling,” Meadow said.

“It’s better this way,” Tony said. 

“He’s making the right decision. He’ll get a place, you will go and visit. It’ll be better. You’ll see,” Carmela assured them. 

“Well, you guys could still get back together maybe? Right?”

 

* * *

 

Carmela watched Tony as he gathered his belongings to leave.

“Be careful.”

“I’ll be at the Plaza,” he said and turned and left without another word. 

Carmela and AJ watched as Tony drove off and Carmela put a hand on AJ’s shoulder to offer some solace.

 

* * *

 

Carmela lifted up the needle and gently set it at the start of the spinning record. It was filled of slow mid-twentieth century jazz standards, starting with what Carmela and Rosalie had decided was their song -- La Vie En Rose. Perhaps a cliché when picking out tracks from Édith Piaf’s discography, but how could one resist the gentle lull of the music -- this record featured Louis Armstrong’s rendition and his gravelly voice completed the ambiance of whatever this thing was that she and Rosalie shared.

Rosalie was seated on her couch when Carmela started up the selection. Carmela paced over to her and much to Rosalie’s chagrin offered her hand to help Rosalie to her feet. Rosalie takes Carmela’s hand and they step back and forth to the music’s tempo.

It was simple. Rosalie rested her head on Carmela’s shoulder and they relished the ability to be with each other, safely, privately, and honestly. 

Carmela thought that if anyone could withstand the hell of a divorce by her side, it was Rosalie.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Carmela said, surprised that the words felt  _ natural  _ coming from her lips.

They danced a slow dance that stretched into an eternity, resting their heads onto each other’s  shoulders. They swayed lazily to the slow tempo of the music in each other’s arms, just enjoying the closeness, relishing their two heartbeats coming together to form a dance of their own. They enjoyed the moment for what it was – a temporary bliss, unencumbered by the constant hurdles of life. They acknowledged the struggle to come, but for now, in this moment, they were complete.

  
  
  



End file.
